


to become vainglorious

by Voidromeda



Category: SK8 the Infinity (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Experimental Style, M/M, Other, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidromeda/pseuds/Voidromeda
Summary: All that Shindou gains, he gains through devouring turmoil, setting his roots in, and growing. He gains so much and still he wants more, for his desires shall never be sated.
Relationships: Hasegawa Langa/Shindo Ainosuke | Adam
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	to become vainglorious

He gains everything through blood and turmoil and spit – the last word JOE laughs at often, bursting into hysterical bouts that have CHERRY screaming insults at him, a trio together only for whatever entertainment value they give to one another. All that he gains, he gains by dipping his fingers deep into thick sanguine, bringing back peeled fingers and bare muscles. Tissues fluctuate between throbbing and stilling, teeth gnaw at them and tear them apart only for them to stubbornly cling together again. All that he gains is through his overworked glands, spittle flying out through the air and landing in puddles upon the ground.

Everything that ~~Shindou~~ Adam gains is through chipped and chewed nails tearing down barriers to his success. Everything he gets is by his own fingernails being torn off and spat out elsewhere, until his fingertips are bare and the only thing left behind is a ruined hand and a torn palm. Others would never grasp onto his struggles, how he has to claw through all that happens and start screaming at the void just to hear his own voice echo back.

America is a distant dream, mind drifting in and out and all about. People stumble over his name only to spit out rubbish, and still he corrects them. Suggestions for a new name are thrown into the bin where they belong, his ears bursting every single time they are wrong, and still he rejects them.

Within this Earth, he toils and suffers, only to get nothing in return. Wires snap, break apart like a sledgehammer to teeth, and Shindou screams. He screams into the dark, and the dark rolls against him in a slow caress only to belch out mockery at him. His own voice echoes and jumps around his skull, slamming against the walls and then kneading along the brain.

Here, he toils. He toils and grows. Like a seed taking root, he grows. And grows, and grows –

_And grows._

His father dies during his growth. His mother’s gaze turns stonier, words shorter and terse; she plays with the possibility of being youthful and sociable, but he sees her face twist and turn when people leave her alone. She opens her mouth and bile flies out, painting her own walls with a saccharine pink that reeks of candy in the sun.

He loves his mother once more, the woman who weeps in the silence and does not see him linger in the void. He places his hands upon her shoulders and promises her success, victory that wraps around his tongue like acid in an animal’s ruined stomach. Motherhood drains out of her body and leaves behind a cynical husk which tells him what to do, how to act, how to grow.

She withers while his roots dig into her.

And thus, he grows.

* * *

Shindou returns to Okinawa with plaster upon his face, his lips curled upwards into a permanent smile – there is a hop within his step, a skip in his personality.

_“you will be loved,” his mother says to him in promise before they return, “I will teach you to be loved. I will teach you to let others worship you.”_

But as he returns to Okinawa, he throws himself into the most basic form of love: philanthropy. Money rolls from his fingers and drops upon the hands of those wishing to spread betterness, and influence is returned to him in droves. Voices kiss his throat and give to him promises of a better life, where everyone shall know his name and whisper it reverently.

He returns the favour by running his hands through the hair of opportunity, giving kisses to the lips of luck, and telling the beloved miss fortune to lay in bed with him just so that he can thank them. Blessings kiss his back and lavish his legs with attention and he returns it by spreading them and allowing fate to see him at his barest.

Soon, Shindou has this place wrapped around his fingers – he curls them and beckons people closer, tongue lulling out to taste, and then learns of the delicacy of the beloved world. Once he feels the heaviness and plumpness of adoring others upon his hands, he finds he cannot let go.

He finds that he wants more.

He finds that he cannot do what he wishes to do.

And so S is born.

* * *

Men, women, in-betweens and neithers come to S – they have their own worth to prove. Of course, many disappoint – not all are cut out for the competition of S, and he does not begrudge them. People are but only human and to be human is to be undeniably beautiful.

There are those who rise to the top with their beautiful forms, lithe or otherwise, thickset or otherwise, heavy, fat, chubby, muscular, slim, skinny… they all rise to the top, some more so than others. His blood boils deep inside, need shaking him inside out, and so he begins to practice. Alone, with his dogs watching, he pushes forward and practices –

And practices.

And _practices!_

Perfection is his form, fingers wrap around his legs and mold him as they wish. He feels kisses upon his neck.

 _You will be loved,_ he repeats, _you will be loved,_ he echoes, _you will be loved,_ he confirms as he bends down real low, angles himself, and increases his speed. Thus, he works on acceleration, to constantly maintain it to the point of perfect velocity. He works, and practices. _You will be loved_ becomes a mantra, a prayer. He echoes it in the back of his head, kicks forward, and soars through the sky and gleefully crashes straight down.

 _You will be loved,_ he says and spreads his arms straight wide, barreling towards a dog in which he cradles within his cage and almost snaps the neck of.

Dogs die all the time and, really, Shindou is no different from those whom kick their pups.

* * *

All that ~~Adam~~ Shindou tears down, he does so through bile and mucus. Vomit flies out of the stomachs of the people he embraces, mucus mixes with blood and turns artwork into a mess, and he spins and throws people against the asphalt – CHERRY, JOE, their original names sing in his veins and still he greets them with wide grins and deep bows. He is the gentleman, one who believes utterly in love – they sneer and spit upon him with their vile, hateful words, malice bubbling beneath pus-reeking skin.

He sees monsters where they see themselves as heroes. Flowers bloom in the compost heap that walk among him, and still CHERRY reaches out to him – the filthy robophile – and tries to convince Adam to sit down with the rest of the mutts. He wraps his arms around the pink beauty, presses right up against him and feels his own body heat up from the fear and struggle.

Heaviness, as always, tents his trousers and presses against his fearful CHERRY while they dance and slide slick along the unchanging track. Always, always, the spice of scorn and the flavour of fear dance along his meal, face heating up as another victim moves along to his beat, his rhythm. JOE takes a step back, hands coming up in defeat.

He does not skate against his muscular candy, not today nor any time soon.

What a shame.

* * *

The red-haired boy often comes here, though with mostly failures and little success. Shindou grows to love him like a dog loves their runts, underdeveloped and ill-fitting for survival as they are, and he dreams of him – sometimes, the little red-haired boy is splotched even further with his hair’s colour, purple spreading across his elbows and legs, and sometimes he watches him with the fondness that one watches a train wreck.

That very same boy cannot ever seem to give up; a part of him enjoys that, relishes in his repeat failures, in his inability to move ahead and adapt. A part of him cannot help but feel disappointed that the little ant cannot climb up to the ranks of his favourite; how he longs to take him into his arms, expose him to a world far different than what he knows, and leave him but another mark on his long, long list of those whom he destroyed.

Women, men, in-betweens, and neithers – this little runt can never join their ranks, too far below them. If he cannot even beat Shadow, then what chance does he have?

And yet, Shindou wants for the little failure.

all deserve to be loved, after all.

* * *

Gentle snow returns with the dried up inferno, acting as a delivery for the wrong goods. His heart twists and tightens up and he watches the gentle snow take the board from the withered husk, watches them fumble at first – then he launches himself out of his chair at the same time the sweet snowfall launches, gains speed, _figures it all out._

But what the snow figures out is not how to skateboard, not how to move on a board with wheels, but how to slide down a steep hill of pure white on a board that controls you. The littlest snow moves sideways and with the strangest of controls, as though the snowfall is losing itself to the harsh hurricanes or the strong gusts. An impossible jump – or so it seems, yet Shindou can _feel it._ The intensity of it, feels it dancing along his ribcage and swallows his heart.

It slides down further, heating up his veins, pounding endlessly against it until there is nothing left. He wraps his arms around himself, goosepimples appearing all over and reminding of how _alive_ he is. Adam _lives,_ and _breathes and he_ watches, he listens, _loves._ This gentle snow – it sings to him, calls to him. Up into the sky it goes, board tilted at an odd angle, and back down onto the ground does the little snow coming crashing down, down down down down _down_

For once, the little red-haired failure does something _right._

* * *

He gets his wish in the end.

The red-runt – Reki, he is called – challenges him, his voice rising up to a hysterical screech upon him saying a blunt truth to MIYA. He is the one to cultivate his growth, and the one who knows his one lone downfall – the catlike one has nothing to live for, nothing he cares for. He skates because it is all he knows –

And how sad that is, for Adam lives through everything and soon skateboarding will come to an end, but he will find something else

for he is not _empty_

The snow is there as well, with wide-blue eyes and slim face. Tall the snow stands, but shorter than he; gentle eyes widen and then glow alight with passion. Shivers race down the snow’s body, whose hand comes up to grasp at an elbow while staring at Adam still. Reverently, the snowflake looks at Adam as though he is a God.

And still the snow lets Reki challenge Adam. Still the snow watches as Reki joins him in his dance, their bodies pressed tightly up against each other – heat against heat, for even he cannot resist the passion that Adam radiates. For a moment, the two of them are one – they meld together, turning into one single statue of love and heat and _passion and –_

Reki barrels into his arms after already cracking his skull. Adam merely throws him to the side for the finishing blow.

He returns to see the snow flushed red, conflicted between wanting to dive in to save Reki and frozen in place from Shindou’s piercing presence. He walks over, hand hovering above the snowlight’s face –

 _You can touch_ a whisper of a voice says.

The world around him fades and his hands are upon that soft face, memorizing the feel, gentleness, the slopes and the way a smile curves the muscles. Saliva gathers at his mouth, nearly leaking out like an uncontrollable mutt and it is with a careful swallow that he empties his mind out. He takes a step back and snow looks up at him with such a strange look –

“You will skate against me next~” Adam sings, a hand cupping that sweet face for but a second.

And in return he is given such a beautiful, wondrous, delicious, _perfect smile._ He fantasizes about it, waiting desperately for the weekend once he departs from S. He tastes snow upon his tongue every time he drinks, every time he eats, and whenever he looks at anyone else he wishes to bed or love. Even his withered aunts and husk of a mother cannot ruin it, ruin his cheer –

Snowfall wishes to embrace him, be one with him. He will melt that precious snow mound with his heat, his love – furiously, he thinks of that beaming smile. Cannot stop thinking about it, if he is to be honest; over and over and over and _over again,_ he dreams of that beautiful smile and of their nude bodies pressed against each other.

Formless, naked bodies – no genitalia, no pectorals nor breasts, just dolls which merge together to become of one. Yet when he wakes up, heat tents his trousers and he has to mount a pillow to be able to get over it.

Beautiful.

That snow is so

_Lovely._

* * *

He skates with them once – and that once sinks into his veins like heroin, penetrates through his nostrils like pure cocaine. His tongue nearly gets to taste the untouched, unblemished skin of his snow but he manages to refrain – their dance is why he is here, after all, and he gets to feel snow’s back against his stomach, feels that bottom rest against his crotch.

A gasp shivers its way out of snow’s lips when Adam’s desire makes itself apparent.

And still that snow escapes his embrace, even when he knows how desperately Shindou _longs_ for the snow – but perhaps it is that the snowfall knows only Adam, and _not_ of Shindou.

He will rectify that soon. He will.

_He will._

Even if he has to lock his snow in a little box, cutting that body up into pieces just to make sure no one takes it away. He wants to see what every expression on that face looks like – from anger to elation to fear to misery to _acceptance._

~~The acceptance is the part he craves.~~

With a loud proclamation, just before the snow is left trying to escape from the authorities, he confesses his feelings right to that gentlest snow.

And that gentlest snow responds by pausing, looking over the right shoulder, and smiling that elusive, odd smile.

He will love that snowfall, no matter what it takes, no matter what he must do. He loves. _He loves._ And it is in love which Adam thrives.

Shindou hopes his snow is ready for that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to see comments and know what you thought.


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